Impromtu
by RisingStorm15
Summary: When Aramis is injured, it's up to D'artagnan to save the day. The only problem? He can't stand the sight of blood.


It was the first time the sun had shone for longer than three hours all month, and without the constant deluge of rain and storm it seemed as though all the criminals of Paris thought it was a good idea to come out of shelter.

Having been basking in the sunshine at their usual table throughout breakfast, it had seemed then that nothing could put a dampener on the collective good mood felt by the garrison.

Twenty criminals later that good mood was starting to wane.

"I swear Aramis, if you try and set me up with one more woman I'll steal your favourite musket," Porthos growled, twisting in the saddle to glare at his brother in arms.

D'artagnan snorted in amusement, having just this morning witnessed a rather dishevelled looking Porthos marching back in to the garrison.

"I take it the widow Lorraine did not work out?" Aramis inquired with a sultry smirk.

"Didn't work out? The woman is crazy! One night in her bed and she starts talking about having hoards of children all named after me!" Porthos snarled.

Aramis and D'artagnan simultaneously burst out laughing, prompting a frustrated growl from Porthos.

"Children! May we please focus on the task at hand," Athos drawled sarcastically from up ahead, having taken point to ignore the arguing behind.

"Why of course Athos," Aramis replied smoothly, cantering to catch up to his leader and avoid the simmering glare being cast his way.

Watching the byplay between his brothers D'artagnan couldn't help but shake his head in amusement. He had been working with them for a year and half now and had lately been spending much more one on one time with his pseudo brothers.

He and Athos had been sent on a joint mission, allowing them time between stops to work on his diplomacy and fencing skills in equal measure. He rather liked the company of the eldest in their group, having grown to accept his wisdom and teachings born from experiences long past.

He did however, find a more solid partner in Porthos, having been working primarily on his hand to hand combat skills with the bigger musketeer. When he'd asked Porthos to spar with him the elder had immediately agreed, swinging an arm around his shoulder and marching him off to the practice grounds beside their usual bench. Though he'd been roughed up and bruised he had learnt much from his affable companion.

Aramis himself was another matter entirely.

D'artagnan had a penchant for landing himself in trouble, often finding himself injured and in need of the skilled medic's care. Knowing this, Aramis had begun to teach him some of the skills of the healing trade: how to stitch up a wound, how to check for concussions and how to make up a salve for bruises and scaring. He had discovered that he wasn't as bad at being an impromptu medic as he thought he'd be.

He was torn from his musings by the sudden frightened neighing of Aramis' stallion, who was rearing up in terror, slamming his hooves down and badly jolting the marksman.

D'artagnan's own horse was uneasy and he gently shushed her as Aramis attempted to get his mount under control.

Rearing a second time, D'artagnan watched as Aramis was flung out of the saddle, landing hard on the ground and narrowly missing being clipped by his horse's hooves.

D'artagnan leapt off of his mount to grab the wild stallion's reins as Athos and Porthos moved to assess their downed friend.

D'artagnan caught the wildly flapping reins, seeing the tail end of a snake slithering off in to the roadside bushes and understanding what had actually caused Aramis' horse to be frightened in the first place.

With the threat out of sight, the stallion seemed to be calming down, shivering slightly after his fright but having sustained to injury.

D'artagnan ran a soothing gloved hand over his coat, shushing the horse as he snorted worriedly.

"How is Aramis?" D'artagnan called.

Athos looked up from where he and Porthos were supporting their groaning brother.

"He's broken his arm badly, we'll have to set it and stitch his cuts, their too deep to leave as they are," he informed stoically.

D'artagnan made his way over to them, kneeling down to look over his wounded brother with a critical eye, catching sight of several bleeding rips in his uniform from where Aramis' dagger had fallen free in the fall and caught him, the broken arm blaringly obvious in the misshapen shape.

"Aramis has been teaching me a few things about healing, if we get him to a better spot I can take care of his wounds and set the arm," D'artagnan murmured.

"Porthos and I can move him to the shade, are you sure you'll know what you're doing?" Athos asked.

D'artagnan nodded resolutely, moving to untie Aramis' medical supplies from his saddle.

Moving to kneel beside his wounded friend he smiled when he saw that Aramis was awake and smiling up at him from where he'd been propped up against a tree.

"I hear you're going to be my healer D'artagnan, I have every faith in your abilities," Aramis stated with a small grimace.

"Well if you just stay still we'll all get on fine," D'artagnan stated simply.

He decided to tackle the broken arm first, knowing the cuts were only sluggishly bleeding and Aramis was in no danger of bleeding out. He gently took hold of Aramis wrist and with a sharp tug the bone realigned with a sickening click, causing Porthos to immediately go a little green as he watched the proceedings.

Aramis yelped sharply at the pain but soon quietened as it lessened to an ache, watching as D'artagnan unwound his blue scarf and used it to support his arm in a makeshift sling, causing the pain to lessen even more.

"Thank you D'artagnan," Aramis murmured.

A grunt of annoyance greeted his words and he quietened, recognising the Gascon's need to focus only on the task at hand, his eyes focussed on threading the needle he held in slightly shaking fingers.

Washing the wounds in Porthos' kindly donated wine, D'artagnan steeled himself for the task he would soon have to undertake. In battle, blood was something you constantly spilt, and even when the battle was over you were so hyped with adrenaline that you didn't dwell on it. He was fine with seeing his own blood, and yet ever since he was a child he had balked at the sight of open wounds and the blood that spilt from them.

He forcibly pushed all his revulsion to the back of his mind, forcing his terror to join it as he gently as he could began the process of stitching Aramis up again.

He pretended he was mending a shirt, placing stitch after methodical stitch until lacerations were closed and bandaged by Athos who fetched all the supplies he needed, Porthos having left to scan their surroundings for dangers.

When the last bandage was tied off, he found that his mind had descended in to almost a foggy trance, unbroken by the grateful comments of their resident marksman who admired the well bandage and stitched wounds with a pain laced smile.

Standing to put the supplies away, D'artagnan caught sight of the blood staining his hands a rusty crimson and the colour blanched from his face, the fog over his mind descending further as without a sound he let his mind slip in to the beckoning darkness at the edges of his vision.

* * *

Something was touching his cheek…a hand.

A noise he barley registered as a familiar voice buzzed above him as D'artagnan slowly peeled open his eyes, catching sight of a blurry face above his own. Blinking, the blurry visage solidified in to the face of his brother, Aramis, a smile on the marksman's face.

"There you are D'artagnan!" He said jovially.

D'artagnan groggily went over his last thoughts, the events of the day rushing back to him and causing him to immediately begin to shoot up in to a sitting position, only to be halted by a heavy hand forcing him back down on to what appeared to be his bed at the garrison.

"Easy lad, you don't wanna be doing that just now," Porthos cautioned from somewhere to his left, causing D'artagnan to turn his aching head and catch sight of both Porthos and Athos crouched beside his bed with relieved expressions.

"What happened?" he managed to murmur softly.

"You did a remarkable job of tending to Aramis' wounds but I believe the stress of the event cause you to faint. You hit your head on a rock when you landed," Athos informed gently, brushing a stray hair out of D'artagnan's eyes.

D'artagnan sighed as the hand Porthos had moved to hold was devoid of blood.

"I-I really don't like blood," D'artagnan whispered.

Aramis chuckled warmly above him, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder as he spoke.

"I will endeavour to make sure you never have to heal one of us on your own again, for now, just sleep some more, we'll be right here beside you".

D'artagnan's closing eyelids seemed to agree with Aramis and he surrendered to his dreams with a soft sigh.

"He did good today," Porthos commented quietly and the three of them watched over their Gascon pup.

"Indeed he did. He does make a rather good impromptu medic".


End file.
